


Tasteful Nudity

by gettingbetter



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Dick Pics, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingbetter/pseuds/gettingbetter
Summary: Ray accidentally snaps Brad a dick pic. Brad tries his damnedest to be unaffected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A friend tweeted this: https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CgcvCpQWcAAPN7s.jpg:large with the caption "imagine your otp" and, well, I imagined my otp.

Brad is only just drifting off to sleep when his phone buzzes, vibrations shaking his bedside table at 2:33AM.

He considers ignoring it, but another round of violent vibrations has him angrily yanking the phone from its charger to see what excuse anyone could possibly have for texting him at this ungodly hour.

The light from his phone burns his eyes for a second, and he squints at his notifications. There’s a snap from Ray (one of his only 3 Snapchat contacts), and above it, two texts, also from Ray. He opens the texts, and lets out a groggy chuckle at the walls of caps reading “DON’T OPEN THE SNAP PLEASE HOMES” and “DON’T DO IT PLEASE. ACCIDENTALLY SENT DIC KPIC DON’T LOOK.”

Brad, naturally, opens Snapchat next, taps on the unopened snap from Ray, and waits for it to load with his fingers at the ready to screenshot it. The snap lasts seven seconds (modest, but not too modest), but Brad only needed the first three. He skips the rest to send Ray a text about not waking him up next time if he really wants his nudes to disappear, along with the screenshot as an attachment.

 

Brad doesn’t remember the dick pic incident at first when he wakes up. Ray doesn’t respond to his text, so it takes until Brad’s next text to Ray two days later for him to see the photo again and remember. When he does, he laughs again, but looking at the photo in daylight fills him with an embarrassment he hadn’t felt at night. His face doesn’t heat up, but if he were prone to blushing, he might have blushed looking at it.

It’s not that Ray’s naked. He’s seen Ray nearly naked at least a hundred times in the AO, and nudity has never made Brad uncomfortable, anyway.

What affects him is the way Ray looks in the photo. This isn’t Ray jokingly humping Walt’s leg, or Ray puffing out his lips in a display of faux sexuality. This is Ray with his hand suggestively framing his hard dick, Ray coyly toying with his lower lip between his teeth. This is Ray, unguarded and vulnerable, actually _trying_ to be seductive.

The thought fills Brad with some kind of feeling he can’t identify. He swallows it down and clicks his phone shut, sliding it back into his pocket. He can’t remember what he wanted to tell Ray, anyway.

 

He looks at the photo again that night, drawn to it by some kind of morbid curiosity. He doesn’t want to do anything with it, other than just look. Draw some kind of understanding from it, learn something new about the man he spent every waking hour of his life with for months at a time.

It strikes him how artfully the photo is taken. Ray always called himself a creative genius, and this photo shows that he must have a genuine interest in visual arrangements, at least. Brad is no connoisseur of nudes, but he knows enough to know that most dick pics are a laughable disgrace compared to this one, at least as far as aesthetics are concerned.

Ray’s face is cropped above the nose, giving an illusion of anonymity, as though his tattoos don’t immediately give him away. It’s a touch of shyness that Brad would’ve never thought to associate with Ray, but it makes sense. One look at Ray’s eyes has always been enough to give away his every feeling.

His dick isn’t at the forefront of the photo, though it hits one of those golden points Brad remembers Ray telling him about during one of his Ripped Fuel rants. His hand and dick both hit the lower third division of the photo, drawing the eye to them unconsciously. Brad has to give him credit – he really thought this one out.

He also notices that Ray’s other hand is slightly in frame, meaning he had to use a tripod, or at least prop the phone up somehow. He’s genuinely impressed by the amount of effort Ray put into this fleeting Snapchat nude – though more alarmed with himself for cataloguing all of this information about said nude, when he should have just deleted it after holding it over Ray’s head in the first place.

He’s shaken from his thoughts by his phone vibrating. It’s Ray, inviting him out to One Dollar Taco Night, an old and oft-neglected tradition of theirs. Brad shoots back a “Sure.” text, feeling a tight, inexplicable guilt in his chest.

 

Brad expects things to be weird, for some reason, but the second Ray opens the door, things are just like they’ve always been. They talk shit, they eat tacos, Brad complains about senior incompetence and Ray complains about his new desk job being restrictive to his warrior spirit. Brad laughs, because no matter how much he misses having Ray at his six, they both know Ray loves civilian life more than he loved being in the corps. He probably loves being able to sleep at night, at least.

They don’t talk about the nude. Brad has never known Ray to be ashamed of anything before, but Ray doesn’t bring it up himself, which means it’s off-limits to Brad’s teasing. He knows Ray can handle it, he’s not some fragile pussy to be handled with kid gloves or anything, but they’ve gotten better about boundaries since Baghdad. Brad knows that if Ray won’t talk about it now, he’ll talk about it later, or he’ll keep it buried down til he dies, but that’s his call to make, not Brad’s.

At the end of the night, Ray drops Brad’s tipsy ass off at home, telling him he can pick him up to get his bike in the morning, but he’s got brain damage if he thinks Ray’s lifting his “no drinking and driving” policy just because Brad’s smooth talk is getting better. Brad thanks him at the door before stalking inside to collapse on the bed, still fully clothed.

Pulling off his shirt and pants proves to be a bigger trial than he expected, despite years of practice. When he finally succeeds, he spends another minute wrestling the pile of clothes on his bed to get his phone out, knocking them off onto the floor once he gets what he wants. He opens his messages, scrolls to Ray’s name, ready to thank him again, because he is definitely drunker than he thought he was.

Instead, he’s greeted by Ray’s nude, still recent enough to be on the first page of texts.

“Fuck,” he groans aloud. Sober Brad could handle this. Sober Brad would be a mature adult about it, not to mention a good friend.

Sober Brad isn’t here right now. Drunk Brad palms himself through his boxers.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He knows it’s wrong, and fucked up, and it’s only gonna make things weird. But he can’t focus on those thoughts, can only focus on Ray’s hand in the picture, big and capable looking, just barely grazing his dick. His eyes flutter shut as he reaches under his waistband, taking himself in his hand and stroking, the image of Ray’s dick, hard and leaking, imprinted on the back of Brad’s eyelids.

He strokes himself, hurried and antsy and drunkenly boneless all at once, imagining Ray getting ready to take the photo. Imagining him stroking himself to get hard enough, running his rough thumb over his slit the way Brad imagines he’d like. Brad wonders what he thought about, wonders about Ray’s secret fantasies, what he thinks about when he’s doing what Brad’s doing. He doesn’t think about who the picture was meant for, because he’s drunk enough to admit that that hurts to think about. Instead, he imagines Ray talking to him while he gets off.

“Wish it could be you touching me right now, Brad,” Fantasy Ray says. “It’d feel so good, you know. Always wanted your hands on me.” Brad groans, hips stuttering as he fucks his hand. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to find a good pace, and he’s getting close. “Fuck, Brad, touch me,” and Brad is coming, sticky release making a mess of his boxers and stomach.

He doesn’t have the energy to clean up. He’s barely finished before he’s drifting off to restless, disjointed dreams. Ray is in all of them.

 

This time, when he wakes up, he remembers what happened perfectly. If the mess in his boxers didn’t remind him, the texts from Ray telling him to “rise and shine” and “text me when youre up so i can pick you up & u can make me breakfast” and “please tell me you didnt die of alcohol poisoning from 4 beers dude” were reminder enough.

“Sorry. Didn’t set an alarm. Got drunker than I thought.” Send. Brad tries sitting up, but the pounding in his head forces him back down. He reaches for his phone again. “Be here soon. Let yourself in. Please bring Gatorade.”

“aye aye” comes Ray’s response.

 

“Jeez, Bradley, rough night?” Ray teases.

“Fuck off, Ray, you were there.”

“That may be, but when I left you, you looked regular drunk. Right now, you don’t look regular hungover, though. You look run down hungover, homes. Fucked-out hungover.”

Brad’s jaw tightens at that. Is he that obvious? Does Ray know?

“Whoa, Iceman, you’re blushing,” Ray says.

“I don’t blush, Ray.”

“Well, if you did, you’d be blushing right now,” Ray counters, and Brad is momentarily struck by how well Ray knows him. “What’s going on? Did you actually manage to score from inside your house somehow?”

“Shut up,” Brad says, trying to shut Ray down, despite both of them knowing it’s a losing game. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh, I see,” Ray grins. “You took a page out of your pal Ray-Ray’s book and tried your hand at drunk nudes!”

Brad doesn’t say anything, feeling unusually trapped. He rarely has anything to hide, least of all from Ray. Maybe that’s why it took Ray less than a minute to hone in on the one thing Brad’s ever tried to hide from him.

“Bet they weren’t as artful as mine, though, huh? Don’t fret, Brad. Not everyone’s nudes belong in a museum of fine art.”

“No, I didn’t take drunk nudes, but you’re right, Ray. Probably because no one else in the history of the camera has kept the golden ratio in mind when positioning the camera for their indecent spank bank photography.”

“Brad,” Ray says slowly. “Did you just confess to studying the composition of a photo I sent you of me jacking off?”

“I,” Brad starts, then stops. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“To study it or to confess to studying it?”

“Both.”

Ray looks at him, and Brad feels like he’s being taken apart by Ray’s stare. Maybe he deserves it, he thinks, for doing the same to Ray when he didn’t know it.

“Huh. Well,” Ray says, “that is certainly one hell of a confidence boost. Thank you, Bradley, I am truly flattered.”

Brad rolls his eyes, but he feels secretly relieved that Ray is letting this go without further questions, or, worse, referencing PFLAG.

 

The next time Ray brings it up is at their weekly beer and game night. Thankfully, they’re both already three beers in, so Brad doesn’t have to face it sober.

“So, Brad,” Ray purrs, which all in all isn’t particularly unusual for Ray, particularly when he’s been drinking. “I wanna know what you thought of my photo.”

Brad doesn’t mind playing dumb. If he has to be uncomfortable, he figures, so should Ray. “Your photo?”

“You know, my dick pic. My nude? My dirty little secret, my money sh-“

“Stop,” Brad groans.

“No, really, though. Did you like it?” Ray’s voice drops, and Brad hates the way his heart quickens at the sound. “Did you touch yourself to it?”

“Ray, what the fuck,” Brad asks, because he’s still not above playing dumb, and he wants to know for sure what Ray is playing at before he confesses to anything.

“Because I hoped you would. Well, not at first. At first I was just, like, beyond mortified,” Ray says, sounding like himself again. “But you took a screenshot, and I hoped a little, and then you said that thing… you, that you studied it, and man, I hoped a lot. Hoped _hard_ , Bradley. Real hard.”

“Ray…” Brad’s voice is tight. He licks his lips unconsciously, eyes never leaving Ray's.

“What I’m saying is, Brad, and tell me if I’m out of line, but… I would really like you to touch me, like, fucking ASAP,” Ray finishes.

“I think you are _extremely_ drunk,” Brad says, more to remind himself than Ray.

Ray looks at Brad with his puppy dog eyes, which are more ridiculous than sad, especially given the context, but it’s not like Brad needed Ray’s sad eyes to convince him, anyway.

“But… tomorrow. You still want this tomorrow, and Ray, I promise, I’ll touch you while I tell you about every filthy thought I had jerking off to your glamour shot.”

Ray looks at Brad like it’s Christmas, and Brad pulls him in, kissing him messy and affectionate. Both of them are drunk and uncoordinated, but Brad thinks it’s the best kiss he’s had in months, looking at the loopy, sideways grin Ray is giving him before he’s getting pulled back for another one.

“You make good on your promise, Brad, and I swear to god, you’re gonna get a new dick pic from me every fucking day as long as I live.”

“And oversaturate the fine art dick pic market? For the good of all of us, I’ll have to pass on that one,” Brad deadpans, earning himself a forceful shove and another sloppy kiss.

“You know you would love to be the proud owner of all those pictures of me,” Ray teases, and _Yeah,_ Brad thinks, too tipsy to push against the fondness he's feeling, _maybe having more pictures of Ray around wouldn't be so bad._


End file.
